Head Games
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: Sex & morality in the same tale, two subjects, like the characters, that are often diametrically opposed. Why does touch continue to be an effort?  Why was that hug so awkward?  When did the madness begin? SLASH, chan, incest, dark
1. part I

**Title:** Head Games

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** NC-17

**Warnings:** Incest, shota, chan, oral.

**Disclaimer:** The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, and Johnny Depp - my apologies & gratitude for the imagination that they spark in me.

**Summary:** Sex & morality in the same tale, two subjects, like the characters, that are often diametrically opposed. Why does touch continue to be an effort? Why was that hug so awkward? When did the madness begin?

"**Touch me, it's so easy to leave me."**

Touch is such a dangerous thing; it can lead to attachment & misunderstandings.

I want to touch him; though not entirely in ways that I should. In ways that lack purity…though not love.

Despite everything, I love him - so much so that I locked him away even from myself. And that's why it was for his own good because it was also for _my_ own good.

I also fear him.

He's so curious, so sensual, _precocious_ even. Where did he get that from? Certainly not from MY side of the family.

This leads me back to my dangerous thoughts.

I couldn't look at him and not think of his long departed mother. It was an arranged marriage, but she was good to me. I grew to care for her in time despite my resistance, making it all the more difficult when that company I'd come to count on suddenly disappeared. She got me used to that feeling of a soft touch…left me longing for it. But, upon her grave, I vowed there would never be any other woman in my life.

Of course, if I gave into this temptation then…I still wouldn't be breaching that.

No, I can't. Even though I'm not entirely sure _the boy_ would mind, not certain at all that he would consider it abuse.

I refer to him as 'the boy' inside of my head because there are times when it's difficult to believe that he is truly half me, _my_ boy. But he is and he always will be. Even after all this time he still acts so much like a child, still clings to me…

Willy is the one thing in the world that I truly own, that will hopefully outlive me, extending my own life through his. With no family of his own, with that heir in tow, I sense that he's had no other experiences. Would it be so wrong then to impart some knowledge of desire before I go?

_Desire_, a despicable emotion that cares little for the effect that it may have upon the object it has been forced upon; an…_urge_ that exists to trump the very nature of discipline and order.

Still, I remember.

I remember a time before I trapped him inside of that tangle of wire and metal. A stormy night he stayed with me, his young, shuddering form snuggling into my large, strong warmth for protection. I felt like a great gorilla protecting the smallest member of his tribe. I still coddled him at that age, trying to make up for the maternal parent that he lacked, the guilt chasing me around like her ghost.

At the time, he was enjoying the comfort as much as I was enjoying comforting him…

No, perhaps I _was_ enjoying it more. I hadn't meant to, but it was why he had to ask:

"What's that?"

He'd just grabbed, yelping, and gripping me as he did with each passing clap from the heavens. The last one landed one of his small hands in a sensitive area. My robe had come undone during the previous jostles and the thin cotton pajamas underneath didn't hide much.

I told him. I am a doctor after all. No need to be ashamed.

The child _and_ the hand wanted to know more, they easily reached into the opening; nimble, delicate fingers on such hungry, responsive skin, their diminutive touch giving the erotic illusion of being larger than usual.

"But why is it like that?"

Again…I told him. This was as fine a time as any for explanations, for knowledge about his own anatomy. I should have told him to stop too…but I didn't.

"Oh, so this feels _good_?"

His voice sounded innocent, but clearly intrigued and…eager to please.

I _had_ also taught him never to lie, therefore I couldn't bring myself to. I told him the truth with a slight groan. This was going much too far.

The thunder & lightening struck again, like mighty Jupiter himself throwing a glowing arrow. However, this time the boy did not scream or shudder. He was too entranced with his…new toy. My bedroom lit up in stark, sliced brilliances of black shadow and piercing light, my reclined form nearly twice the size of the one curled near my torso.

As is natural to such stimulation, an appreciative clear trickle had appeared.

I heard a charming high-pitched giggle, followed by:

"Dewdrops."

I wondered if I should explain the lubrication purpose of what was occurring, but that would have involved explaining women as well and my mind wasn't quite on that subject.

I should mention that as well as being gregarious and curious to a fault, the boy also had another odd, governing habit…putting things into…_his mouth_. Babies and toddlers do this; we all initially experience the world orally before our eyes, nose, touch, and brain fully develop. Children of his age should have long outgrown this. I'd blamed the lingering phase on the complete lack of breast-feeding he'd received.

The second my eyes had closed from the overwhelming sensations of pleasure was all the opportunity he needed to investigate further with that favorite bodily sense.

There was a warm, quick lick, followed by another and another and another. Assumedly trying to keep up with the excretions. When the fluid ceased, only for a second, he immediately placed his mouth over the end and sucked like it was a straw.

What a marvelously flexible and talented tongue! I suppose he'd had many years to develop it!

The small hands were also still busy with their own explorations. I lost all control or consciousness to stop him. It had been a long time since I'd experienced such pleasures…a _very_ long time indeed.

Memories of his mother mixed and blurred with the new sensations that I was feeling. He had begun mimicking the earlier gestures of his hands while adding an array of improvisations. I was thinking of them both, though I couldn't recall the modest woman ever being as insistently exploring as the tight mouth enveloping me now.

I flinched only once, "No teeth. Try…uhn, not to use your teeth."

I actually corrected him!? Clearly my mind was gone.

He obeyed though, _obeyed well_. Throats have no teeth.

A sound of anguish coupled with a thunderous clap of lightening as I finished. My hand prevented the child from removing his head, but several eager swallows followed the first nervous one. In the end, I had to _pull_ him off of my sensitive member. How could he know that it wasn't pleasant for much after that reaction?

The boy seemed very pleased with himself though, cuddling back onto my chest, my night garments now in such disarray that I could feel the rough hairs of my chest brushing against his peachy soft cheek. I wrapped an arm around his slim back.

The young voice, traced with a hint of my own British accent, whispered, "I made you feel good Papa, didn't I? It always feels good when I finish too, but nothing ever comes out."

My eyes flew open.

I heard his lips smack once as he licked them off.

He'd tricked me! …he wasn't _completely_ innocent of this particular biological function! This wouldn't be the first time the boy was inclined toward deception. Unprepared to go into my sin, I'd deal with his first.

"Willy, you shouldn't be doing that, it's wrong to play with yourself." There I was lecturing at the same time that I was gasping for air from the most intense orgasm I'd ever had.

The boy cuddled closer, unfazed, whispering again, "Why not? It feels so nice."

My breathing and thoughts were becoming more steady. The willowy body pressed against my own girth and I could tell he was probably in need of committing the act again shortly. I stammered, "Be-because we can't just do things simply because they feel good…we have to do the _right_ thing or we'll be punished."

"Punished by who?" The boy said with a suspicious movement of his hips.

"By God." I said, now I was the one shuddering from uttering a name that struck _me_ like thunder.

"Why would God punish us for feeling good? That's stupid. And mean." The tone of purity had been replaced by a sharp streak of annoyance. "I don't want to worship a God like that."

"Who are you to question God?!" I sat upright, upsetting the child's intimate embrace. I also re-cinched up my garments.

Something was very, very wrong with this child. Sometimes I suspected that on a deep level; that there was _a reason_ why his mother didn't live through the birth, that something evil was inside of him…along with my seed now, the same seed that had given him life. Oh, HOW had I let this happen? And…and…yet I couldn't be sure I wouldn't allow it to happen again.

Desire, temptation, pleasure, sex…_all_ works of The Devil.

My strict, stoic parents came to mind, their gloomy portraits looming over my front entrance. They had been right all along, right to punish me and treat me with such callousness. Life was a struggle, it wasn't about indulgence and you must always stay guarded against enticement to the contrary.

The boy's eyes had continued to glitter at me in his perpetual state of wonder as I racked my brains around this problem, this awful secret that I'd have to make sure, for his sake as well as my own, _no one_ ever found out about. It was time to take control, to break him down, teach him obedience.

"The storm is over now. You can go back to your own room." My voice wasn't entirely unlike the rumbling of the low, receding thunder outside.

His was more like the pleading of a kitten. "But I want to stay here, with you. You make me feel safe."

There was the temptation again. I closed my eyes and drove it away. "You're a big boy now..clearly. You're too old for such things. I have to stop indulging you. It's time I started to toughen you up."

Yes, I could fix this. I could fix _him_. I had to.

He was disappointed and baffled, then something else as I pulled my robe even tighter around myself.

"Fine! I don't need you." The boy pulled away offended, grabbing his pillow as he hopped out of the king-sized bed. Standing in the doorway, he made one last smart remark before stomping away. "I've still got myself to play with!"

"Willy, God will punish you!" I shouted, but didn't dare give in to the urge to follow after him.

**xxxxxx**

**xxxxxx**

I had strange dreams that night, but one of them involved the inspiration for the complex headgear that I set forth to develop the very next day. It was a thing of strange beauty; a perfect way to prevent temptation, restrain his offensive words, and certain to isolate him at school. I couldn't beat him as my father had done to me, but its application and frequent need of recalibration would do just as well to teach him the meaning, the _understanding_, of pain.

For life was full of that, not pleasure.

I felt no guilt at this joy. No shame as I dabbed at his bleeding gums.

The device also gave me further success and fame in my career as a dentist. Clearly God approved.

Yes, discipline, restraint, bondage, pain - _those_ were healthy things. I could only hope and pray that my contribution to such was enough to appease the creator I'd so surely offended. I continued to deprive myself, and therefore, my offspring every day thereafter. My last offering was to remove every trace of color from the home. There wasn't much but from now on I'd do whatever it would take not to…stimulate my challenging son any further.

I got rid of all of his more fanciful clothes, cute things purchased on his begging insistence, as we'd pass shop windows. Replaced them with appropriate, woolen miniatures of my own wardrobe: itchy, starchy hand-me-downs from when I was a boy. I also got rid of the colorful jacquard robe from that night. It had been a gift from my wife. There was a purple vase that had been one that I'd given to her. It was one of the most difficult things to discard, Willy used to stare at it for hours on end. He'd love to watch, as the sun would pass through it; sitting by the windowsill, arms crossed, staring at the world through the colored glass.

Then he began to watch the thunderstorms that used to terrorize him.

I watch him, as he doesn't flinch, only widens his eyes wider and wider as the random flashes streak across the sky, revealing his mutated shadow across our wooden floors. He doesn't yell, he doesn't make a peep…I almost feel bad for what I've done to him, but who am I to argue against God's will?

I never touch him anymore. I think he blames himself.

Why didn't I consider it God's will when he wanted to become a chocolatier? Why was it God's will to take the one thing in this world that I had and pull it away from me? I had scores of time to think it over.

Scrapbooks were the only things that kept me company in the dark hours.

_Who_ was right and who was wrong? _What_ is right and what is wrong?

**xxxxxx**

**xxxxxx**

My cold, white phone is pressed tightly against my ear today.

I'm listening to him go on and on about things he's invented, places he's visited, marvels he's accomplished. He wants so badly to impress me that I can't get a word in edgewise. I don't mind. It's so good to hear his voice again, it often still sounds so childlike…as if no time has gone by. I close my eyes and dab at the tears, they flow like blood from tender flesh pierced by unforgiving metal.

The trace of an accent is gone now along with a great deal of class. Ah, well. I am done looking for our differences. I am done trying to force him into being a clone of myself. He has done so much more without me and my desperate attempts to rein him in.

Eventually he pauses, awkwardly he asks if he can visit me again without the boy named Charlie; a boy that reminds me a bit of Willy when he was that age, but somehow different. It was the child who spoke to me first, not my son. It was the child's company that made my candy maker brave enough to finally come back to me. How will those two affect each other? Will they ever end up like us? I hope not. I hope we can repair the damage, drill out the rot, and put in shiny new fillings.

I think of his mouth.

His teeth are the most perfectly aligned and smooth I've ever seen. He must have kept up with the adjustments even after I left him, obeying _that_ command while deliberately violating the one about candy. It must have taken terrific amounts of restraint and pain to create those results. It's a sign, a symbol. He loves me too.

He doesn't have the headgear anymore. No, of course not. He looks like his mother more than ever now, the contrast of beauty seems even more prevalent on masculine features.

He even wears his hair like she used to…

But that won't happen again. Surely he's forgotten after all this time, among all those sugary fantasies. He never did tell anyone…although he had a funny look in those purple, vase-colored eyes (I assume they're contacts) when he said that _salty_ candies were his favorite after chocolate; explaining that salt and sugar went surprisingly well together.

I remember my son's blunt words from so long ago.

"_Why would God punish us for feeling good? That's stupid. And mean."_

Perhaps it was I who was The Devil all along?

I stroke the short hairs of my silvering goatee and answer him after the long pause.

"Of course you can. I'll be looking forward to it."

**Author's Notes**:

**11/3/07 – damn typos. I really have to be less shy about re-reading my own work. Sorry.**

**I wrote this last year but never posted it here.**

"_**Touch me, it's so easy to leave me"**_**, is a quote in the song "Memories" from the play ****Cats**

"**The Boy" – it was intended as a form of detachment, but there are several places that one may hear this phrase; the most ironic being from Homer Simpson in the long-running cartoon T.V. series, "****The Simpsons****". The coincidence is not deliberate, nor is the Boy George reference (fans of the pop star legend often call him "The Boy"), but I don't mind if you like it either.**

**There are times when I am writing and thinking up things that I very much identify with Dr. Wonka in this story; I think that's partly from where this odd pairing was inspired. Also, ya gotta admit, Christopher Lee has a certain menacing appeal that parallels Willy Wonka's. He learned it from somewhere. smirk**

**I have happily figured out that I can use X's for scene changes. Otherwise FFN won't let me choose my own spacing and that makes setting up scenes where time has passed very awkward.**


	2. part II

**Title:** Head Games, part II

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** PG (this chapter)

**Warnings:** hints at incest

**Disclaimer:** The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, and Johnny Depp - my apologies & gratitude for the imagination that they spark in me.

**Thanks to:** PetPetAngel & MaRaMa-TSG of FFN for beta work.

**Summary:** Father and son reunited again. Time may pass, memories may fade, but feelings remain. Perhaps the only way out of Hell is to dig down deeper.

"**Mind over matter"**

Leading from a nearly invisible vehicle lays a shadowed trail of footprints, alongside them, sharp holes made by a walking stick. The path disturbs a flawless field of endless snow and grey sky - such a long journey to make to my lone domicile. Though the last steps must be the hardest.

I surmise this from the fact that I've been watching the bird-like movements of a figure up and down my stoop, index finger alternately jutting out and back again at the bell. Having spent the entire morning peering out of an imperceptible crack of my front curtains in anticipation, pressing it wasn't actually necessary. Should I reach out? No. That is not my way. Let Mohammed come to the mountain. Let fate decide once more.

The doorbell rings.

An unpleasant brassy sound, old device that nevertheless still serves its purpose. There isn't need for anything fancier. However, it's the first noise I've heard and doesn't seem befitting of my guest. It would be impossible for me to describe exactly how I felt about today. How could I be certain that what was on my mind would be on his? Something akin to excitement rose in my veins, but I forced on the stoic quality I'd spent an eternity crafting and opened the door, my form filling its frame.

"Hiya…Dad."

"Hello, Willy. Come in."

I step aside to allow entrance. He does and shuts the door behind himself. This simple gesture is a marked improvement in his habits, as a child he only shut doors to slam them. Many commonplace manners escaped my son, like he was some sort of prince and others existed only to serve.

Willy stands completely still, looking far up at me. It's not that he's short, although he's not tall either (even in those heeled shoes), it's simply that I'm rather lofty; 203.2 centimeters or six feet, eight inches, to be exact. I like the difference. It suits us, the roles we still play to one another. Furthermore my son has a slim frame to my sturdier one, allowing him to look elegant in the ostentatious garb he wears. He's fancied such fashions since youth, clearly more than making up for every object I forbade, took away with harsh lectures on not spoiling children. Today, he wears a top hat and embossed cane, patent leather boots and floor length coat with fur trim – ideas of royalty rather than his true humble origins. I however, am in a three-piece suit, somber, traditional, blending with the monochrome interior. Willy is like a bouquet of spring flowers, exploding with pattern and color, looking so out of place that one could consider it offensive. But…he is my son.

Attempting to restore order where my guest so easily removes it, I offer to take the fanciful overcoat. He appears overwhelmed by even this modest gesture, shyly turning. Wordlessly I assist in sliding his garment off, noting the satin lining.

I'm suddenly assaulted by a familiar cacophony of rich and delicious fragrances, more intense than the first time he paid visit. Each individual smell is like a note of varying pitches in an exuberant melody: sweet sugar, shelled cocoa beans, cooked milk, vanilla seeds, candied citrus peels, ripest berries, toasted spices, roasted nuts, and even floral fragrances under all that. The more I breathe, the more enticing fragrances I can detect.

It is I who stands stunned now, stupidly holding the warm and scented coat.

Along with his hat, Willy has pulled off the owl-like sunglasses and turned around. A pair of eyes, similar to my own, but with a mystifying purple tint are revealed. They are the exact color of that fragile glass vase he was so fond of staring at the world through. His slight smile fades to concern and the irises loose their glimmer.

"Did-did I do something wrong already?"

Can he still read the subtleties of my features so well? I try not to sound too harsh.

"Willy, you promised me."

"I didn't."

His pitch trembles like air blown through a silver flute. The cane is lifted up to show me that even it has been emptied of the usual rainbow confections.

"I swear I didn't!"

My voice is more like a tuba in comparison. "Then why does the _entire_ place now smell of candy? You promised not to bring so much as a gumdrop into my home."

"Oh. Uh, gee is it really that strong?" Face contorting, mirthful laughter chimes out. "That's um, that's just how I smell Dad. The Buckets comment on it, but I thought they were exaggerating."

I look at him stunned again.

Shoulders squeeze together and in a small voice he says, "…sorry. I'm allergic to cologne or I'd try to cover it up. My soaps and conditioners don't even have fragrance in them. I've got terribly sensitive skin, ya know. Heh."

He IS a candyman, through and through.

He repeats, features suddenly (and enticingly) innocent, "…sorry."

As I proceed to hang up his coat, I manage to confess with my back turned, "No, it's alright. It's actually…pleasant."

"Really?!" There is utter delight in his voice, the exact opposite of the trepidation from a second ago. My words affect him this drastically. I try to fight the elation of power that I hold over his being.

"Yes, really...if not a tad overwhelming."

The shy smile returns. He places his clear walking stick into the umbrella stand. "I um, hope I'm not interrupting anything. You must be busy, being famous and all."

"Well, I'm not _world_ famous like you. I shouldn't imagine that I'm any busier than you, especially with an heir to train. How is the…the boy by the way?" It would be rude not to ask, although part of me is envious of Willy getting a chance to partake in raising a child, something I lost; and such a calm and obedient boy, one who will never run away.

My expression stays very much the same but Willy's is suddenly shifting by tiny degrees in dozens of ways, only to finally espouse a strained, "He's great. He's…really, really great."

Gloves squeak. He's squeezing his hands nervously for some reason.

"Oh! I nearly plum forgot!" He bends down to pick up a parcel brought with him. I'd been so focused on his being that I hadn't even noticed it. "I've got a present for you! Sort of a host gift."

I look at the oddly shaped, thoroughly wrapped item. It looks highly unorthodox. I force a smile. "Er, why don't we continue upstairs? I've prepared afternoon tea."

**Author's Notes**

**The actor Christopher Lee is in fact six feet, eight inches tall. **

**I was compelled to continue this although taken an unexpected amount of absorption. I've also been trying to develop my style. **

**More works by myself and many found at www(dot)fanworksfinder(dot)com under "Wonka". **

**This is cross-posted at LiveJournal at the community "darksidewonka". Join the community to see locked posts.**

**Comments appreciated. Arigato.**


	3. part III

**Title:** Head Games, part III

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** PG-13 (this chapter)

**Warnings:** hints at incest, Willy being Willy

**Disclaimer:** The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, and Johnny Depp - my apologies & gratitude to them.

**Summary:** Dr. Wonka and son reunited for a second encounter. Time may pass, memories may fade, but feelings remain. Perhaps the only way out of Hell is to dig down deeper. Tea with your demons anyone?

**"It's the thought that counts"**

A porcelain cup is carefully balanced in his purple coated hands, blowing on the transparent red-brown liquid inside, eyelashes turned downward, pursed bright lips emphasizing high cheekbones - one moment so clumsy and the next so elegant. Using electricity is unnecessary; a soft light permeates the cloud-covered sky, leaking in through the thinly covered window near the table. I hadn't meant to stare, but he was too distracted by the task at hand to notice me. My mind superimposed the metal lines that once encaged and distorted his face. How had he grown to be so…beautiful?

Carefully he takes a sip. Then scrunches up the pleasing features, ethereal picture disappearing as a lashing of tongue follows. It was comical but I did not smile or laugh.

"Is something _wrong_ with the tea?"

"Um..er, uh, nothing! It's perfect! I ah, haven't had _plain_ black tea in a while. This'll uh, be…quite refreshing. Yeah." He giggles nervously, slurping, suppressing another unpleasant expression.

"There's cream and lemon." I gesture toward the other items on the tablecloth.

He eyes them with mild disappointment, giving me a quick grin and a polite shake of his head. I know what he truly wants and start to get up. "I allow myself natural sweeteners every once in a great while. I may have a small jar of honey somewhere if that'll suffice."

"Oh no, you stay seated. I'll get it!" He bounces out of the chair, leaving the velvet jacket draped across the back and dashing to the kitchenette area. It was very tempting to pick up the warm, soft cloth and breathe in that scent again. Instead, I look away and toward the noise of cabinets swiftly being opened and closed one after the other.

"But you don't know where it is."

"Doesn't matter. I'll find it." His hand flicked out in dismissal while his head stays buried in a shelf.

A small smile appeared under my beard. He was making a game of it. How very like Willy.

Practically pirouetting, he spins to the other side of the counter, followed by a graceful bend at the waist to check the lower drawers next. Whatever my son lacked in verbal grace, he more than made up for in physical movement. He was tipping on his left foot as he stretched to reach cabinets that were well within my own reach. I secretly smiled again. No point in telling him about the step stool I figured. His lean, cat-like form manages well enough anyway.

He'd turned his back to me, arm stretched out flicking a finger about to indicate that his mind was attempting to retrace where he'd already checked. Naturally he'd not gone about searching in a logical manner. My eye was suddenly drawn to the seat of his trousers, I noticed he wore them rather fitted - his hip had just jutted left then right then left again. I really shouldn't have been staring there but I couldn't help it. Besides, it was as attractively formed as the rest of him.

In a flash his profile turned into view, the ends of the bobbed hair bouncing. Exactly as his mother's slightly longer cut used to. I hid her photos but Willy, with his endless curiosities must have found them, even under the floorboards, inside a locked box, and tied with twine. I sighed. His attention was currently on a cabinet in the middle as my thoughts idled. Swinging it open, intensely scanning it, then holding aloft the desired item with a triumphant "Ah-hah!" aimed at me.

As if I didn't know where my own honey was. He hums a happy tune as he sashays back to the table. Sitting gracefully, crossing one leg over the other.

"Told ya I'd find it. And all on my own too!"

I stifle a chuckle.

"Wut's funny?" He's unscrewing the lid.

"Nothing." I responded. "I didn't laugh."

"You giggled."

"I most certainly do not giggle."

"Well I heard sumthin." My own son was giving me what he considered to be a 'warning glance'. Did he have any idea how adorable that was? Who does he think he learned those threatening faces _from_?

An enormous dollop of honey had been added to the tea and Willy was now holding the spoon at varying distances to watch the remnants it dribble in. He was completely enthralled by the manipulation of twisting and piling strands. I was enthralled to watch him. Pale rays penetrated the transparent amber giving it a look of pure gold. For an instant I thought I might've glimpsed how his mind works; a far away daydreamer, not deliberately rude in action as much as constantly distracted, searching, hunting for inventions. Was I so dissimilar? No. Simply less gifted, thereby less unable to comprehend the workings of this person. I thought about these things often as I clipped those articles, in silence, holding back tears. I'll never forget the surprise of the very first one that appeared years and years later, right in my morning paper; elation swiftly drowned out by the re-opening of a nearly forgotten wound.

The poignant scene I'd been watching changed as his features corkscrewed up again. Dissatisfaction aimed this time at the viscous fluid that had dared to drip upon his plasticine glove. As if it had done so on purpose.

"Tsk. See why I prefer sugar? It's so much neater than ooey-gooey honey."

"Yes. Honey requires _patience_." I say with a lilt of satisfaction, taking a sip of my unaltered beverage.

I was given another fetching scornful look for that.

"No biggie. Shame to waste it though." He wiggled his eyebrows and proceeded to put the full length of the sticky digit into his mouth.

The finger is slowly pulled in and out of his orifice, twisting it while making an audible sucking sound, cheekbones sunken; an image all too reticent of that one late-night encounter. Despite my uneasiness, I was…physically moved by the scene and found myself slowly crossing my own legs. I wanted to look away but he had sealed his eyes to savor the flavor, leaving me free to gawk without embarrassment.

Suddenly both fingers and eyes popped.

"This was made with kadupul flowers! I-I've never tasted _honey_ made from their nectar before. Yer lucky to see even one!" He squinted and smiled in a sardonic way. "And this is fresh. You didn't have this just laying around, did ya?"

"You're a very clever boy, Willy. Er, I mean man."

The violet eyes light up, sparkling with a thousand stars - remarkable effect for mere colored contacts.

"I don't mind. You can call me that. I mean, I'm always gonna be…your boy. Right?"

He looks to me for reassurance, insecure again, such a whirlwind of emotion.

"Of course…my boy."

The feeling of the moment is intense. Willy breaks from my eye contact, picking up one of the untouched cucumber sandwiches, taking a nibble. "Mm! You added mint. I like it, helps to balance out the pepper of watercress. Mint is a very important ingredient in many of my candies. Say, are you still a vegetarian?"

"Yes. The diet is cleansing to the body. You know, mint flavoring is important to my profession as well."

He pauses to consider then chuckles. "Huh. I suppose it is. What a coinky-dink."

Tone neutral, I ask, "Do…do you eat meat now?"

After inserting the entire small, crustless triangle into his mouth, he nods. A few chews and a swallow later stating with zest, "I'll eat anything once! I've eaten green caterpillars and red beetles! I've even tasted a whangdoodle. _Blech!_ Can't recommend that."

I'm flabbergasted. "Then you've been to Loompaland?"

"Yup. Were you right - beastly place! But I found my workers there. Oompa-loompas run my whole factory. They're the best workers I've ever had!"

"Willy…" There was a pained tone in my voice. "You…you could have..died."

I didn't mean to but my hand had reflexively reached out to touch his hand.

A weak twitch of a smile. "I was lookin' for new flavors for my candy."

"Candy. Is that all you think about? Is it worth your very life?" My voice isn't angry, only sad, desperately trying to understand this person I brought into the world.

"It…it was the only thing that brought me happiness, Dad. So..I'd sacrifice anything for it. ..yeah." He looks at our hands touching.

So do I, but I realize that they aren't _truly_ touching. I want to really feel his hand, but I don't want to say that. "There's no chocolate making to be done for today, why don't you take those gloves off?"

He looks at his own hands like they're not connected to him.

"I uh, I have allergies."

A slight darkness comes over my face as I say with certainty, "My home is completely free of germs. It's pristinely clean, I assure you."

"Yeah but…why take a chance?"

The tone mocks a phrase I used often in his youth. Perhaps I deserve that, but I never made him constantly cover his hands. This is most unreasonable behavior. I hold out my other hand, "Even I'M not wearing medical gloves today because I cleared my whole schedule in order to spend time with you."

His head raises to look at me, far away fringe of bang makes his eyes appear even larger, "Ya did?"

"Yes. Why do you keep asking me to re-state things? I mean what I say Willy, you should know that." The words are a reminder of my cruel threat that separated us so long ago. I won't be here when you come back, that's what I'd said. And I wasn't.

I bow my head, gripping his hand.

He could have _died_, Wilbur. He could have died without you ever seeing him again, never to sit before you now as he does and look at you so longingly for approval. Unable to bear it any longer I reach out and start to forcibly pull off the thick latex glove. Willy is shocked. He tries to resist, to tug away, however I am easily stronger. I grip his eyes with my own as a reminder of this and with a twist of his delicate wrist I'm at a distinct advantage. Both our features move from frustration to a peculiar kind of aroused in the struggle.

Noises like a clown's balloon doing a trick follow, his glove nosily relinquished - the barrier finally broken.

As I race to pull off the second glove, Willy raises his free pale fingers to brush against my goatee. Startled, I reflexively pull away. Fear appears in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but the look is too familiar to me; too painful. I take his warm, bare hand and place it back onto my face. "It's alright."

Laughs as he touches more earnestly. "It's not as scratchy as I thought it would be."

He doesn't know that he's only the second person ever to do that, especially in such an affectionate way. I find myself leaning into it. Managing to hold my composure, I answer, "Surely you can grow one of your own by now?"

"Yeah…but…" He's stopped stroking my face and has taken to a new game with the two bare hands; taking both of my hands into his, manipulating them until they are fanned apart for size comparison. His palm easily hides inside mine. It's a playful gesture I'd seen young children do with their parents. I'm charmed by these intimate curiosities, the satin feeling of his bare skin. Our touch feels charged, sacred as it did last time.

Willy wriggles his nose in a cute manner though the ending line of his answer is quite provocative, "I don't like it. I'm too much of a neat freak. I always shave…_thoroughly_."

The eyes flick away from our hands and back at me, the tone flirtatious, "I like yours though."

I clear my throat. His behaviors keep changing, one moment I am certain that his mind is like a child and the next he seems to be that little devil incarnate I recall, his psyche has more compartments than a box of deluxe Valentine chocolates! He's so unpredictable and I'm so monotonous.

"It feels nice to touch. Again." There's a coy look on Willy's face. Hinting at that night perhaps? Or is it my paranoia?

He asks next, "Sooo..um, what didya want to do today?"

"You're the one who asked to come over." My voice is a deep whisper even though I don't mean for it to come out as such. "What did _you_ want to do today?"

"Mmm…" He looks at the floor. "I dunno…I…wanted to make some pleasant memories I suppose."

There's a silence. I start to lean closer, our hands still connected, but he suddenly pulls away. Then as if none of the intimacy had just transpired, Willy says bubbly, "I know! Let's open yer gift!"

The lumpy parcel in extravagant ribbon and tedious wrap is shoved over to me. After a suspicious glance at it, then back at my son's anxious face, his lustrous broad teeth fully exposed - I cannot deny his wish. Carefully I tug at a bow, there are several to undo.

"That ain't how you're supposed to unwrap a present. You should do it like you're excited, in a rush, just RIP it off!" He reaches over to assist in odd enthusiasm and in an instant a tall, unique sculpture is revealed. It is my home, a miniature of it, made entirely out of toothpaste caps. I turn the structure around by its base. The front has two small figures at the door – one tall with a top hat, one short in a cotton ball sweater. Cotton balls, fluffed and pulled apart, nimbly glued to the base, creates an illusion of snow all around. I remember the child had asked if he could have them from one of the containers in the dental office. Such a simple request that it puzzled to me. This gift is what they had been used for, returned to me then, in a new form, like my son. Everything in the static object is pristinely white.

Willy says uncertain, "Do ya like it?"

"It…it's the nicest thing I've ever received."

"Charlie made it. He's made a bunch of the factory too. His dad works for a toothpaste company. Anyway, the kid gets all those reject caps and turns them into stuff. Uh-huh. I think they're sorta silly but it shows imagination."

"So, _you_ didn't create any part of this?"

"Wut? Ya said you didn't want any sweets."

He's annoyed. Arrogance. Quickly justifying himself with, "I wrapped it!"

That would explain the peculiar and overly thorough job there, I thought. I am disappointed and upset. Had I misunderstood this request to visit? Was I being overly sentimental? Had I, as usual, misjudged this person? Didn't he feel anything special? I stand up again, glowering down, my baritone voice curling and vibrating inside the stark room, "This child I barely know spent time and energy to create a perfect monument of _our_ reunion. And he's giving it to me, a man he barely knows, to keep. Forever."

He is confused by my words, unmoved by their deeper meaning. Saying in response a flat, unsatisfying, "Yeah."

"Willy. I ask you again, WHY are you here? What do you want from me?"

His face looks as if I hit him; panic, eyes dart about like a caged animal. He stares again at his naked hands. They start to shake and he balls them up onto his thighs out of frustration. Squeezes his eyes shut. "Some…something is really wrong with me, Dad. I…I tried and tried, so did the Oompa-loompas bu-but…we can't fix it. I can't tell the Buckets."

He looks away ashamed after the confession. My face softens and my eyes widen. I find the strength has drained from my body and come to kneel down before him, reversing the previously threatening posture to one of adoration. In my mind, his body morphs into a young boy again. Then I see my departed wife in a high-color dress, barest blush upon her cheeks, her pallor a sign of a weak constitution. No, please, I can't stand to loose him again, to loose the only other link in my paltry chain. It shouldn't be like this. The child should never go before the parent. I grab the hands that fit so well inside my own and stop them from quivering but the whole rest of him is trembling as well.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Nothing but a headshake is the response.

"Come, we'll see if my knowledge proves better than that of your foreign workers."

I slide an arm over his shoulders for reassurance. He's stiff as a doll, rigidly lays his head at the crook of my neck. That enticing scent wafts under my nose again. If the situation were not so dire, I'd be allowing myself to enjoy the closeness more. No other part of him reacts to my touch or words. It becomes apparent that he's not going to move or get up. There is no resistance as I slide a second arm under his legs, easily lifting him out of the chair. In complete silence I carry him up down the stairs, wood yawning under my feet. This home is so old; too old. I wonder what holds it together. I wonder what holds me together?

Looking at the crumpled person in my arms, I can only give thanks to whatever bit of glue or thread kept things from completely collapsing. Who's ever prayer it was. I think I long stop saying them, but one escapes me as I walk to the medical area where an examining room exists still.

**Author's Notes**

**To be continued.**

**Kadupul is a mythical and legendary flower from Buddhist tales (of the Celestial Nagas). It is rare and has a unique fragrance. This epiphytic plant grows in the forks of large trees, where the decayed particles of bark and moisture collect to give it a rich protective foothold. The flowers bloom at midnight and die in the morning. Check Google images for a picture.**

**More works by many others and myself found at under "Wonka".**

**This is cross-posted "darksidewonka" on LiveJournal. For example, I expect the next chapter of ****Head Games**** to be a locked entry.**

"**Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now)" by Phil Collins is the theme song for this story.**

**As mentioned before, this piece of writing has been bubbling inside for a while. Not to brag, only to express that its taken considerable time and thought to break my recent writings to the surface. **

**Comments always welcome. Vielen Dank.**


	4. part IV

**Title:** Head Games, part IV

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** NC-17

**Warnings:** incest, d/s, mild violence, character death, hint of chan

**Disclaimer:** The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, Freddie Highmore, Johnny Depp, etc. - my apologies & gratitude.

**Special Thanks:** to LiveJournal users "ktpoole891", "maramatsg", "arielvandekamp" & "petpetangel" for divine inspiration through words and friendship.

**Summary:** Dr. Wonka and son reunited again. Time may pass, memories may fade, but feelings remain. Perhaps the only way out of Hell is to dig down deeper, but beware the discoveries you'll find. Origins revealed, magic reviled. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon their sons.

**"mental breakdown"**

Dentistry is my expertise but a general knowledge of the body is required to practice. My studies however went far beyond that however, as numerous framed prestigious degrees hanging on the faded wallpaper could attest. I have a vast interest in the field, an obsession serving great purpose, not one I deemed frivolous like making confections. Many do not bother to realize how dangerous working in this area of the body is; how close to main arteries and vital organs a person's teeth are, infection spreads readily straight to the brain. This office being so far from any hospital, made it imperative that I took precautions against emergencies.

Every medical instrument I own is lined up across sanitized marble countertops. They are my soldiers, my arsenal of weapons in science and order. I admire them as their edges gleam under the powerful lamps currently in full service – no window exposes this separate room down the hall from the usual examination area. Together my tools and I will find the solution. Please God. You remember me, don't you? Or is that why I'm still here, because you forgot about me when I forgot you?

A starched white laboratory smock is removed from its coat hanger in the corner, a style long gone, considered overly thorough in the industry these days. The medical garment rises up to my chin and falls down to my calves so far below. Priest-like. When people come to me, it is rather like taking a confessional, there's no hiding the truth; sins revealed through telltale signs of plaque and decay. Even twins will differ by their orthopedics - no two lives identical from my view. Unlike a scrape or cut of the flesh, teeth cannot mend themselves. A professional is _required_. Was it my sin to gain enjoyment in exposing their faults, making them pay for their neglect and over-indulgence at the same time I healed them? Or was it necessary, my skill brought by that pleasure even if it was perverse?

Willy had been sitting upright and incredibly still, catatonic upon the examining table. Although, as I twist the final collar button in place, I swear I see his tongue slowly slip across his lips from my peripheral vision. Putting my eyeglasses back in place, a cart of instruments ready by my side, I walk over and decide to begin with the basics. His skin is deathly pale, smooth as the ceramic tea set. Is it a trick of my mind that he seems to glow? Only angels can do that.

Gently I lift up his chin and shine a light directly into his optics. It is then that something remarkable _does_ become obvious to me, startlingly so.

"You don't wear contacts?"

He makes a small moan to indicate that he doesn't.

"Then how…?"

Quietly, weakly, he states, "I wished for it."

I smile at him, assuming he's fibbing as he so often did as a child. Kind as I attempt to make my own voice, the vibrato still resonates. "I see. And do you find that you can make things happen simply by wishing for them?"

"Mmn…sometimes…"

His eyes fall closed and he takes an extended, deep breath. Like curtains rising in a magician's show, they open again to reveal every sliver of lavender has vanished, gone into thin air: irises looking as they did before, black as mine. No, _blacker_ - reminiscent of an untamed creature in the wilderness. I pull back.

"Th-that's impossible. Willy, how did you do that?"

His voice is eerily calm as he retorts, "How did you move the house?"

My breathing halts. A chill runs through me. Not only from the impact of an aching memory but because he's right, because I know the answer and it's horrible in more ways than one. My voice is as soft as his. The words fill me with shame.

"I…wished for it."

Eyes turn toward me knowingly. I'm in disbelief that I've admitted my darkest secret, that I held it in so exceedingly long. The boy had brought it out, as he had brought out the old abilities in my fury. I didn't dare try to reverse the action once it happened, to tap into those strange powers again. Here in desolation have I remained ever since.

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't do it again. My pl-brp-pa…" Uncharacteristically, I stumble on my words. For some reason, this causes the barest sign of mirth in his expression. Calming myself I continue.

"My _parents_ were so frightened, they forbade me to do the things I could do or say the things I shouldn't know. Instead I wrote my thoughts down in journals that you were never meant to find. I should have burned them. Fire, the way to purity, that's what I was taught. These _things_ we can do they're…not right. They're not the ways of God. Loompaland, for example, is such an awful place because it should not exist."

He's hypnotized with fascination as I force through the rest of what I should have said to him long ago. I distract myself from the emotions with examination procedures, removing his candy-shaped cufflinks, slipping the flared sleeves of his shirt up to check reflexes and blood pressure. Slack like a mannequin there are no objections.

"Don't judge your grandparents. They were good, simple people. Probably a lot like The Buckets. However…they couldn't have children. So their parish gave them an abandoned infant left on the church doorsteps. That child was I."

He stays silent and remains still as I slide my hand to his torso, unbuttoning the tightly fitted vest, waist so slim women might envy it. Clearly he never over-indulges in the sugary confections he creates. The initial broach is also removed with care, so that I may undo the top buttons of the boldly patterned silk shirt. It feels as if I'm unraveling him piece by piece. More cream-colored skin is revealed, like melted chocolate to the touch, a fever or his he usually this invitingly warm? I check his breathing with a stethoscope, in between listening to his lungs, explaining myself further.

"That's why I focused on medicine, on the tangible workings of man and this universe. I've led the most modest life I could, trying to draw attention away from myself, mostly settling for scaring people into distance. I married a woman with no family or prospects of her own, she was so grateful for…anyone. She never challenged me or commented on anything she found out of the ordinary. I cared for her but…I don't think we ever really knew one another."

I cannot read the expression on his face. My hands are at his bare throat, feeling for lymph nodes for unusual growths. My hand constricts slightly, fits so easily around his windpipe. He groans a desperate sound.

"I killed my mother."

I had thought that, just now and a hundred times before. Though to hear him actually say it, in this condition? It was much different than inside my mind. It brought no satisfaction.

"Your mother desperately wanted to have a baby. I did not. Nor did I think her health would tolerate it but Wilhelmina...I…I…haven't said that name in so long. I don't think…I've _ever_ said it to you…Wilhelmina, was starving for love and life. Looking back, I can't blame her for wanting some escape from…"

I look around my uninviting, dreary place.

"…this."

Facing him again, hands cupping his jaw I add, "But without that wish she made, without her, there would have never been you. She died happier than I'd ever seen her, than…I ever made her. …you two look so similar."

I sigh rigidly, strained from the amount of sentiment felt and expressed.

"I can find nothing wrong with you. Actually, you're fantastically healthy."

His parted legs, which I had been standing between, slide behind to lock at the ankles and pull me nearer. Arms snake up my own, one across my broad shoulders, the other stretching to the back of my neck, pulling downward.

Lids half-closed he says, "You haven't examined my _mouth_ yet."

In the next second, he's pulled us together, my mouth slightly agape from shock, his from desire, and we are kissing, in a way not appropriate for father and son. He tastes like everything I've ever deprived myself of, like every one of those fragrances mingling and separating, exploding against the smoothest, most perfect teeth ever created - _my_ work. His explorations are nothing short of ravenous.

I feel like a fly lured by sweet promises to their demise.

Willy and his games…

He's gotten the better of me again. This was probably his plan all along, teasing, playing coy, gaining my deepest sympathy then moving in for 'the kill'. Exactly the same when he was little during the thunderstorm. Only this time, his conquest came at the expense of my most intimate secrets. My declarations of guilt seem to have left no impact of compassion or evidence of humanity. Is his soul as black as those eyes?

I indulge a long, long moment before forcing myself off his abysmal maw. He gasps wantonly, shirt half undone, a thread of saliva at the corner of roughed up ruby lips. I shoot him the most ugly glare he's ever seen then slap him _hard_ right across the face.

It was very satisfying to do that.

Motionless but panting, he turns to face me again slowly, a wicked smirk accenting the stinging pinked cheek, hair not quite perfectly in place anymore. "See. Something _is_ wrong with me. Charlie, he knew just what tah give you but me…all I can think about is what I _want_."

He squints. "And you want it too, father dearest. Yer as sick as I am."

THIS infuriates me, partly because it's very true: a hidden throbbing sensation confirming the accusation. I'm also irritated by his ability to read my mind while I'm constantly left uncertain about his. Without a doubt my own temperature and blood pressure have increased as well. Willy grips my sleeves before I can hit him again, head twisting upward to stare undaunted. I'm mesmerized by the enunciations of his exaggerated speech, flashes of pearly symmetry through twisted logic.

"You've let _fear_ control your whole life! But don't ya see? The stupid _RuuLEsss_ don't apply to us. Can't you fer once allow yerself to feel pleasure?! Who's ever going to know?"

In a hushed tone, aroused, "Ohhh, the secrets I can keep, the knowledge I've _never_ shared…"

Biting his lip, looking downwards, nimble hands undo the lower buttons of the lab coat. As if drawn by the power of his gaze, pulsing sensations congregate exactly where he's focusing attention. I'm torn in two directions, between anger and my own desires that have indeed been haunting me. Patent leather shoes are kicked off, clicking loudly to the floor. Next he hops off the examination table, lowering down to his knees before me. There can't be many who've seen the great Willy Wonka in such a vulnerable position. Who else could wield such influence over his stubborn being?

"Saying your prayers?"

"Ha! No. But I'd like tah do some _worshiping_." He nuzzles my slack hand, the same one that struck him. Then licks it, pet-like.

"You're a very bad boy, Willy."

"So punish me, daddy."

I'm not proud of what I allow him do next or the thrill at whispered comments about being every bit as large as he remembered. It's easy to separate myself from what's happening, the coat hiding like a curtain, the graphic details of his thorough actions. The inside of people's mouths has always given me gratification but this is untold of. We both have an oral fixation; Willy's being what he can put into his. Which proves to be considerable indeed as his mouth opens wider to allow room for every growing inch. Muscles and flesh a hundred times more skilled than what I remembered, it is I who now must lean for support against the table, who is gasping for breathe. His hair is as silken as the shirt, my hand sliding through it on accord of his own piston movements.

Minutes the span of eternities pass. I dare to peek, catching him looking upwards, and complete satisfaction in his eyes, in the curve of lips that still manage to twist as sharply as the tongue inside. He slides back leisurely, to expose my swollen shaft, his throat noticeably deflating, teeth calculatingly scuffing against skin pinker than any damage I'd done to him. It is the exact amount of gratifying discomfort needed to stimulate me further. A low groan vibrates down to him. At the end twirling around to deposit a leak of my essence across his taste buds then into his stomach. How he must have been hungering for that drop of flavor more rare than a kadupul blossom. And he got it, about to get a river of it at this rate.

The whole show is an obvious taunt of power, one that I will not tolerate at this point. I reach down to his scalp and grip his hair roughly, such a practical method of command, how foolish of me to insist keeping it so short in his youth. He doesn't enjoy being removed from his 'pacifier' – emitting lurid whimpers of protest. In a few seconds he's forced back to his feet anyway. Quickly pressing my weight and hardness against his back, pinning his front against the examination table.

"Ssssserpent."

"Ngg…Wait!" He's struggling. Good.

Into his ear I whisper heavily, "You. You're my gift. And if I recall your words correctly, there is only one way to unwrap one."

A startled noise between a scream and a yelp is emitted as his shirt is torn off and trousers thrust down. I'm a large, powerful man who has never permitted myself to use those strengths. I wouldn't have felt comfortable treating a female this way. Willy walks such a convenient line between the genders – I can indulge in both directions at once.

"There's a few more _important_ areas left to examine." I reach forward to gauge how the rest of him has developed. He grabs my hand in panic, attempts again to imprudently stop me. My other hand is half shoved into that overly eager mouth. Struggling becomes earnest. A second later and I know exactly what he meant by shaving thoroughly. In fact, I realize his arms and chest were equally hairless. Interesting, oddly erotic, reminiscent of both femininity and childhood. He suddenly shouts loudly, twisting his head back, allowing me to ascertain that the health of the so-called 'family jewels' is excellent; obviously not the reason for lack of a natural heir.

"What's the matter? You may not be exactly as endowed as myself, but some of the genes have passed down. You're above average for your stature."

"…_uhnn_..I…never…no one…has ever.."

"Are you trying to tell me that you've never had sex?"

He's shape-shifted again. The whore claiming chastity?! I let out a loud, throaty laugh.

"It's true!" He's blushing terribly. Hair shyly covering eyes, "Only…only you."

My laughter completely ceased. Something about that statement sent me over the edge. A possessive notion; one still flushed with desire and doubt. I want it to be true though I shouldn't. My dental gloves have remained in tact. Lubricant sits on the nearby cart. I lean to whisper again.

"We'll see about the validity of that fact. There's one procedure left."

Such a delightful yelp is emitted.

Condescendingly I state, "It's just my fingers."

Being far more thorough or deep than required, twisting and probing in a rather non-medical way. I force his legs apart, kicking slacks and underwear that have fallen to his ankles away. Here too is he fit and tight. I stroke the most sensitive area, a knuckle in, repeatedly with one finger. He's leaned over the table, drooling on the previously hand pushed inside his mouth – forcibly being penetrated in two places. Sounds of panic have been replaced by enjoyment. Mustn't have too much of that. This boy needs a lesson about getting what a person "wishes" for.

As fast as I can, my digits are replaced with something considerably more ample. He shrieks and squirms, making the situation only more enjoyable for me. The fingers in his mouth are bitten, unquestionably drawing blood, most likely craving bone. Depraved as I am at this point, it only fuels my passions. I lean down against him, causing whimpers as he's impaled. Tears stream down his face. I'm probably not the only one bleeding anymore. Apparently, this time, he'd been telling the truth. A sick thought occurs to me about this being the second virgin I've claimed in my lifetime.

Lined up with his ear again, huffing I say, "You only make it worse by struggling. Relax."

He doesn't want to obey but the pain forces him to momentarily catch his breath, lying limp. Sweat glistening off palest bare skin, his intoxicating scent had increased dramatically, new fragrances coming into bloom; orchids, sage, pepper, ginger, and mulled wine. I decide to take careful tastes along his back. My silver beard brushes against soft tissue as salty as the Dead Sea. I begin to shift slightly, turned on by these elements and the verity that I'm clothed while he is completely vulnerable.

Feeling more generous, I reach forward again to stimulate enjoyment on his behalf. He allows it briefly before swatting me away.

"I can…do that myself."

I chuckle. Yes, I should imagine he's had great practice at it over the years. "You'll submit to no one, will you?"

The head leans back to expose a long throat and Adam's apple, eyes connect, purple as the fragile vase again, "Like I said, only you father. No one else has been worthy."

Awkwardly, like our affection, we find ourselves connected in another long kiss. This time, instead of a trick, it's one of forgiveness and longing. Ultimately though I'm uncertain who has submitted to whom. We are well matched. Willy was right, he and I lack definition as others form them, as I clung to needlessly. I would prefer now…to cling to this, whatever it is. My hands slide down prone, sleek muscles gripping that stem of a waist, tips of my fingers nearly reaching round the circumference. All pretenses are abandoned. We give in to lust and our corrupt fantasies that only the other can complete, thrusting to ecstasy.

There isn't another pair of ears for hundreds of miles. No one else to hear the long moan as I grip my hands over his, filling him with the same seed that created him.

He's pleased but unsated after the first round; complaining of being cheated a favorite flavor; manner similar to a child begging for candy in a shop as he undoes the rest of the coat buttons. I find myself still surprisingly erect - perhaps from prolonged deprivation or perhaps by the spell put on me; his playful promise of donning a nurse's uniform, which he shouldn't know I still possess, at the back of my wardrobe. He dashes up to the bedroom, naked except for the lab coat that he's currently wrapped himself in. His laughter trails down to my ears in a Pied Piper fashion.

"Temptation incarnate." I mutter to myself, fixing my trousers but loosening the necktie. Collecting some instruments that could prove interesting in these continued 'experiments', I stride more slowly up the familiar staircase.

xxxxxxx

xxxxxxx

Many hours later, we've managed to reassemble ourselves, the day shortly to end and our lives to continue normally. In some level of denial, we lie fully dressed upon the large bed, he with his head on my chest. It is like that night many years ago, but with a peaceful ending. I hear him breathing me in, probably smelling pomade, musk and old wool. Nothing as delightful as him, but a pleased sigh is released all the same.

"Why don't you stay the night?" I offer.

"Can't." He says glumly.

Then he gets an idea, "Hey, why don't you come live with me? Yeah! I'm sure the Buckets wouldn't mind. You and Mr. Bucket could talk about toothpaste 'till the cows come home!"

A small laugh is achieved. I'm feeling very drained, my limbs are turning into lead. "No, that..wouldn't be quite right. Our relationship is…special, best kept private. I don't have a place in your world, Willy. I need to rest and I think you need to grow up."

He pouts, looks away pulling my arm around himself. I'm fairly certain I hear a muffled, "Never."

Long moments of blissful silence follow. I think about what we've done. When you truly care about something, a part of you is forever entangled in it, as a part of the source of your fixation is permanently attached to you. Be it candy, the color purple, genetics or the intangible elements of a human soul. So, am I to be punished for adding to the phenomena or…rewarded?

"Dad?"

Willy's unique cadence, sounding troubled disturbs the air.

"Do you think I'm evil?"

My chest tightens. I hold him tighter. Every syllable is a struggle, but each makes me feel freer. "The only thing…that I know is…I love you."

There are many subtle miracles that happen silently everyday, no one can measure them or be certain of the exact moment of their existence but nevertheless they happen: molecules form life, caterpillars transform into butterflies, a brilliant idea is born and a distant star dies. Willy Wonka looked up at his father in such a cataclysmic collision of energy. He had waited his whole life to hear those words. No matter his infatuation with it, candy never could gratify in such a way.

A second after they are uttered, a loud explosion disturbed the candyman's amazement. It's a distant sound coming from the basement, possibly the water tank. He flinches startled, then hears a second louder booming noise that might be the furnace combusting as well.

"DAD!" He bolts upright.

The figure beside him lays peacefully still, regal-looking in a three-piece suit complete with an embroidered handkerchief in the breast pocket. Initials the same as his only born child. Dr. Wilbur Wonka looked as he had always been remembered…except for the relaxed upturn of mouth indicating a smile.

"Papa?"

Willy knows, even as he says it, there will be no response. He lifts the arm that had been holding him, crossing it with the other across his father's chest. The man, forever a boy, touches his own mouth in a kiss and presses it upon the large, forever quiet, man's lips. Before he might shed tears or mourn, cracks have formed like a spider's web across the ceiling and are racing down the walls, the floor rumbles and shakes. It could be that the old house had grown mysteriously connected to his father in the same way that the chocolate factory so often felt like an extension of himself. There is barely time to run down the collapsing stairs, grabbing coat, cane, hat and flee out the door. Continuing on adrenaline to run the entire way back to the Great Glass Elevator. Safely shut inside, rising immediately, he looks down at the raging inferno that his father's solitary domicile has become. Soon there will be nothing more than a pile of ash extinguished by the persistent freeze of winter.

It seems to the candymaker, as he traveled wordlessly, surrounded on all sides by the deep indigo sky, that bearing the weight of killing not one, but two parents, through the joy he gave them, could very well be considered a punishment of a displeased higher power…if one believed in such things.

xxxxxxx

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EPILOGUE:

The Buckets could not remember Willy Wonka ever being so quiet as he was at their dinner table that evening. No odd humor or disruptive behavior, but more alarmingly there hadn't been any gigantic toothy smiles either. It had been nearly a week since he'd returned from his trip. Concerned as the family was, they politely left him to his thoughts. After all, one never knew how important those might be. His heir could not stop taking glances at him but the chocolatier did not look up from the plate of food he was pretending to make progress on.

"Charlie." The boy turned to face his mother, certain he was going to be admonished. Mrs. Bucket hoped her idea might bring cheer to the gloomy mood. "Why don't you give Mr. Wonka the package that came for him today."

Willy blinked at a box plopped down in front of him; oblivious to his surroundings, it appeared in his mind to materialize from nowhere. The box was neatly wrapped in brown paper and rough twine with a tremendous amount of vintage stamps on it. There was no return address but elegant penmanship familiar to his with fewer flourishes gave away the origin. He gasped, tracing the script reverently where his name was listed above "care of" The Bucket Family.

Boyish laughter proceeded the cheerful tearing of the plain wrapping before he could object, "That's not how you open a gift, Mr. Wonka. That's not what you taught me."

Grandpa Joe picked up a note card that fell out in the process, diplomatically reading aloud:

_**Dear Son –**_

_**The difficulty and beauty of children is that no matter how hard we try to mold them, they are still going to turn into who they're supposed to be. All we can really do is help guide them along the way.**_

_**In the end, the ones we care about are forever embedded into us as we are into them. This is how we truly become immortal.**_

Murmurs of agreement at how wise the dentist are were made. Then the whole family made pleasant noises when a pint-sized crystalline vase was finally revealed under layers and layers of yellowed newspaper. Every family member looked right into the chocolatier's eyes because it matched them perfectly and they could all easily see this for Wonka was holding it right before his face where a tear had started to form.

"It was my mother's. My father must have sent it before…he died."

This was said mechanically but the droplet streamed down his face. He raised a gloved hand to his face and when it came back wet, confirming he was indeed crying, placed down the vase and very calmly excused himself. The family all murmured, now understanding in sympathy why the chocolate wiz hadn't been himself lately.

No more than a minute later, Willy found his solitude disturbed by a small form right at his side.

"I'm sorry."

He knew the placid British tone did not belong to any of the Oompa-loompas.

"It's OK." Wonka looked at the heart-broken little face. "No really, it was a good visit. We got a lot out of our uh, systems. I…I'm glad he wasn't…all alone."

There was a reflective quality in the tone of his words. Shaking himself from the fog he added in a more usual manner, "Besides, I got what I went for."

"The vase?"

"No." A wilted version of his usual giggle was made.

"Actually…" The man continued, cocking his head downward. "I went for you, Charlie."

The boy could only look back at him puzzled.

"I wanted…to understand love."

Such a fascinating but sad man his idol was, standing there in the shadows with top hat and cane, the very image of so many people's dreams come true and yet he couldn't grasp a basic emotion? The boy gave an impish smile. "The family is worried about you. They said I could keep you company tonight if you like."

His expression and eyes wandered a long while before responding, not quite as an adult though not quite like a child, "I'd like that very much."

Waving with one hand to his expectant parents, indicating safety and departure, the boy used the other to grasp Wonka's. He often did but tonight he held it more firmly, more aware of how transient the sensation could be.

Once aboard the elevator, Charlie decided to admit, "Mr. Wonka, this may sound funny, but, erm, since meeting you..my life is like one big wish come true."

The chocolatier had been mildly distracted by his reflection in the glass, keen eyesight having caught glimpse of that pesky grey hair growing back. He paused at his heir's words, lowered himself to the boy's level, studying him like a fantastic new creation with a customary Cheshire cat grin back in place.

"Do you want me to pull that hair for you?"

He laughed, almost insanely. The child paid as sharp attention to detail as he did but seemed oblivious to the inner magic he too contained. Well, somebody was just going to have to show it to him.

"Ya know wut? Leave it. As a reminder of that very instant, that without knowin' it, I _wished_ for _you_."

And after that, Willy dared a gentle kiss.

fini

**Author's Notes**

**I can't believe I write this stuff and yet, like the two in the story, I can't seem to help myself. It's complicated. But in honor of the effort involved in writing, I thank Live Journal and user "piscaria" for this quote:**

"**Writing is easy – all you do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein." - Walter (Red) Smith**

_**"The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon their sons."**_** Ah, big biblical quote with multiple origins, I'd recommend looking it up.**

**The facts stated in the story about the human mouth are completely true, learned through personal experience and because one of my closest family acquaintances is a dentist.**

**The German name Wilhelmina means - "determined guardian." The name is also associated with a famous Queen from The Netherlands who served during two World Wars.**

"**Knowledge" is a curious and dangerous word in religion. In Monotheism it often symbolizes sexual activity or loss of innocence.**

**Willy's "father dearest" comment comes from a film called "Mommie Dearest" (look it up on Wiki or such) about a physically abusive mother who put her career ahead of her children and various other unforgivable acts. **

**Dr. Wonka performed an impromptu examination of rectum and testicals, in case you didn't realize that was part of a full physical for males. Normally they reach under the scrotom and tell patients to cough to check for hernia, a shout would do just as well to check for bounce and balance. The anal exam is partly for the prostrate which...is a curious organ.**

**Orchids symbolize many things, including perfection and lust; some say the spots represent the blood of Christ. The word derives from the Greek word "orchis" meaning testicle. **

**Ginger is a 'yang' or masculine element that encourages will and fiery passion. Black pepper is equated with courage and positive forces of anger.**

**Sage happens to be a very important herb used in Pagan rituals, including Wicca, for purification, often bundled into a "smudge" (which sounds a lot like "swudge"). I also think it tastes really good. **

**So…I uh, I do want my works to arouse. But it's more, I want to arouse thought and awareness in myself and others too. This piece took a lot out of me. It turned out more difficult and personal than I originally anticipated but I give thanks for the challenge that I hope I met. **

**Grandiose notions aside, if you get turned on, one way or another, then I'm pleased.**


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